used to be a shadow, now the shadows scream my name
by embidedbythesand
Summary: he does not hold back, (not that he ever has) he screams and howls and 'roars' and cries until nothing comes up. his squishy hands that aren't his hands began to bleed from pulling at whatever it was holding him back; he tries with every ounce of strength in 'his' body to break free but to no avail. he has no strength. he doesn't even have himself.


_**something i've thought about for a while. never had the motivation to type up and publish until now. more than likely will not be continued or turned into a story, but i may change my mind. you're more than welcome draw inspiration to write your own if you wish, or leave a review. anyways, enjoy this story i typed up stoned.**_

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When he opens his eyes, he soon realizes his Earth will not let him move. It doesn't feel like his Earth, though. But it keeps him bound to something soft against his back with a firm _**"No."**_ ,when he tries to yank his limbs free of his bindings.

He shakes his head in frustration and feels something slap his face, he lashes back and lets out a growl, but nothing is there. But glancing down at his floor he sees something dark, dark and thin and there were millions of them. And it moves with his head. It's _on_ his head.

He persists and shakes his head with utter _fury_ trying to pry them off. They would not budge. With a grunt, he settles (or tries to).

He looks around. No, no this is not his Earth. It's small, and closed in. Not wide and open and infinite like his Earth. But the air feels like the earth. Where is he, and how did he get here? He looks to his right and sees the sky in a small square. He becomes even more so puzzeled than he already is. Has Earth skrunk?

He lets out a noise, and is instantly taken back by the sound that emits from his mouth. Now that he thinks about it, it doesn't feel like his mouth at all. Hell, nothing feels like himself. Something just feels… _off_. He decides he doesn't like off. No, not at all. Off is not good.

He tries to let out his roar, but the noise he let out was not his roar at all (why should he be surprised.) he's heard it before, but then it has been a small chorus below him. This one came out of _his_ mouth.

His off feeling grows and bellows in his chest, and he doesn't like it. When he looks down, a small _squeal_ emits from his mouth. Puzzlement shifts into fear.

He cannot even _see_ himself. This isn't him.

It makes no sense. He does not see his dark hard big self. Instead, he sees something light. Not as light as his sand, but light. Not rough like him either. He sees more 'stringys' coming out of it. Something even lighter is over the legs.

He tries to move again, and to his utter amazement, whatever this _thing_ moves. He realizes in horror: This _**is**_ him.

Fear turns into utter _terror._ He does not hold back, (not that he ever has). He screams and howls and 'roars' and cries until nothing comes up. His squishy hands that aren't his hands begin to bleed from pulling at whatever it was holding him back; he tries with every ounce of strength in "his" _**body**_ to break free but to no avail. He has no strength. He doesn't even have _**himself.**_

He has always had himself. Nothing else. He doesn't _need_ anything else. He was strong. He was ocean. Big and furious and always crashing. He was sky. Big and widespread and always lurking. He was mountain. Big and hard and will never be down. Until now, that is. He is no longer any of those things. All of those things began with _**big**_. And he feels small. He _is_ small. He is below. And most of all, he is afraid.

The last time he was afraid, was the last time he was small, and that was a long time ago. He doesn't remember what he was afraid of, and until now he doesn't remember a time where he had felt this way, he had blocked it out he'd supposed. But now he remembers that he has felt this. And he _**hates**_ it. He hates what he is, where he is, and why he is. He doesn't even know what exactly it is he is hating, but _**fuck,**_ does he hate.

Now he knows _that_ feeling. He chases after it. He feels it all the time. He felt it for the many leggeds, the three heads, too many more that he cannot think of just one. But he crushed his hates. He destroyed them. He cannot destroy this.

He feels ocean on his face, tiny oceans make their way to the stringys. He feels the ocean in his eyes. He lets out a jagged breath, and then a yell, and more breaths.

His lower body feels wrong, his fire is gona but something comes out and he chokes. It splatters all over his chest and it's slimy and smells _bad._ He groans in agony, and plops his head down on his floor.

Perhaps, this is what dead is. Is he dead? He does not _feel_ dead. But this is not him, and he cannot fight so he must be. He is what dead is. He is dead.

How is he dead, though? He doesn't remember becoming dead; he does not remember anything. The last thing he remembers is his ocean around him, and then bubbles. Nothing after that.

He hears something. A _'bum, bum, bum'_. And high pitched noises. _'Beep, beep, beep, beeeeeep."_

The ends of this earth opens, and then closes. His breathing becomes _heavy._ Here he is, vulnerable and something is coming. The "bums" become louder and clearer, a dark shadow spreads up his not-body, followed by something.

It's bigger than him. Or, at least higher than him. It stands on a floor that is not his floor and observes him. It looks like him, but not like him. It has the same flesh, and stringys, but fewer stringys. It has more _stuff_ on him, and he's holding something flat. It looks at the thing moves a smaller thing across it. _What is it doing._ He grunts in disgust, wanting to know what _it_ is. This provokes it to look down at him again. It's mouth curves, and lets out a, "Hmph." Followed by something incoherent, ( _'Hello, there. ….Never thought I'd be looking_ down _at you.')_ and more moving the objects in his hands, and mumblings. He grunts again, prying it to tell him what it wants.

 _ **What have you done to me?**_

He doesn't say that though. He can't.

It looks over at where the opening was and lets out more noises. ( _'Graham, bring some towels, please.')_ He hears someone call back to it, ( _'Yes, sir'_ ) and it sounds different. Not as deep as this one. He growls in frustration, and it looks down at him again. Makes more noises. ( _'Hush, you.'_ ) He shakes his body with a wail. The thing says nothing. It doesn't move. He doesn't notice another walk in until it's beside the other. He stops and observes this new….squish. It has longer stringys, pulled back by something dark, and two peculiar bumps on it's body. "Huurr?"

The no-bumps one glances at the bumped, and chuckles, and says something to it. ( _'I believe he's curious.'_ ) The squish swats at it in response. The two take something and smear it all over him, removing whatever (very) smelly substance he released. He doesn't bother to struggle; He just stares. If looks could kill, the 'squishes' would be vaporized. The one that walked in leaves with the item and the two continue to take the other in. He breaks the silence with more sounds.

( _'You have much to learn, Gojira.'_ )

'Gojira' huffs in reply.

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 **i should specify that the first 'squish' is dr. serizawa. i really wanted to write something so silly as accurate as possible. of course godzilla wouldn't know he's a human. of course godzilla wouldn't talk or know how to communicate, or understand anything other than his mind telling him that he's in danger. of course he wouldn't know his strapped down to a bed in a room in a research facility. of course he wouldn't know what hair is. and probably has never spit up anything besides atomic breath. i hope that clears a couple things up, feel free to clarify anything.**


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